Weathering Storms
by nileflood
Summary: This is Supernatural in a POTC-style/Age-of-Sail universe. It does NOT contain any of the POTC characters. Starring Dean/ Castiel, Sam/Gabriel, implied Adam/Michael, and mentions of Bobby. Mild peril. Written as a comment!fic originally.


Dean hadn't honestly thought Castiel would be any good with a sword. He was just a boy in a fancy brocade uniform, a boy who had a position in the Navy because his father was important. Important (and rich enough) to have found the boy a good swordsman to tutor him, he added as he dodged out the way of a thrust that would have done deep into his chest if he'd not moved. This wasn't the stupid sort of swordsmanship either. Not a dance carefully organised to avoid anyone getting really hurt. The boy could really fight. Dean was actually beginning to worry he wasn't going to walk away from this one.

But it was his own fault.

Scratch that, it was Sammy's fault.

If Sammy hadn't just wandered off when they'd pulled into port, if he'd TOLD Dean where he was going, Dean wouldn't have noticed he was missing hours later and gone to look for him. He wouldn't have tracked Sammy down to some house in the fancy neighbourhood (with real cobble stones on the roads) and he wouldn't have broken in thinking that it was just some ordinary house belonging to some bored wife of a merchant or a merchant and his attractive daughter or maybe Sammy was involved with a maid. Because of course, it wasn't an ordinary house. It was a house full of unmarried Naval officers. And that was a really bad thing.

"Shit!" Dean said, not moving fast enough this time and the edge of the young captain's sword bit deep into his chest, his own sword clattering to the floor.

He stepped back, forced to by the approaching captain, both of them breathing hard and Dean glanced about, trying to find something, anything, he could use as a weapon. There was nothing. Just dark expanses of wainscoting and drab paintings of the English countryside. Nothing he could use to defend himself.

"Look- captain," He began, head tipping up as the bloodied point of the blade moved towards his throat. "I'm here for my brother. He's here somewhere. I just want him back and then I'll leave. No harm, no foul, right?"

"You're a pirate." The captain stated, disgust dripping from every word and Dean had to give him that one.

"...Yes. Technically! But tonight's my night off. Not a pirate right now. Just a man, looking for his brother." He tried again, only now realising who intensely blue the captain's eyes were, brighter and bluer than the ocean even on a good day, more like the sky- the endless horizon. Dean swallowed, feeling his heart skip a beat and he told himself that the wound was worse than he had thought. A fatal blow, and that he was dying. That was why he suddenly knew the man who had killed him was the most handsome in the world.

He leant back against the wall, taking a deeper breath, and gently raised his hand, pushing the sword away from his throat. He was surprised that the handsome man let him, but the surprise didn't last long, not as he slid down the wall, leaving a long stain of red along the wood.

"Gabriel!" The captain shouted, eyes not leaving the pirate, and then he cursed and raised his voice, calling out again "GABRIEL!"

Dean only just heard the shuffling from one of the other rooms, the sound of whispering voices and hurried dressing and then a short man burst in, his light hair in disarray and the shirt he was wearing certainly not his own. In fact, Dean recognised it.

"That's Sam's!" He said, trying to make himself stand again, but instead of the sword forcing him down, it was the hand on his shoulder. A strong hand, a hand that seemed to burn through his thin, fraying linen shirt, a hand that seemed to claim his soul.

"Hush," The captain was saying, before looking at the other man. Another officer, Dean thought fuzzily.

The short officer at least seemed embarrassed, and Dean could see why. Behind him there was Sammy, wrapped up in a sheet. It didn't hide the sheen of sweat over Sam's chest. Or the redness of his cheeks.

"What the hell, Sammy?" He managed, voice barely a murmur as he brother paled, ending up whiter than the sheet as he pushed the sword-wielding man out of the way, pulling at Dean's shirt to try and pressing his fingers over the stab wound.

There wasn't anything else. No pain, no hiss of breath. It just went black, cold and dark and Dean didn't know what was happening.

Not until he woke up, his chest tightly bandaged and the sound of voices interrupting his unconsciousness. There was light too, bright, white sunlight that was strong enough to hurt his head despite his closed eyelids. He groaned, unable to stop the sound escaping. However long he's been asleep, it's been a while. How long exactly, he doesn't know.

"I think your pirate is awake, Castiel." Came a sing-song, almost mocking voice, and then there was a weight on the edge of the bed.

"Are you awake?" That voice was lower, deeper. It was a voice he knew, a voice that had haunted both dream and nightmare although how long for he didn't know. All he knew was that when he opened his eyes, blue ones stared back. Blue as the sky.

"Is there any other option?" Dean found himself asking, words hoarse, ignoring the worried press of a hand against his forehead.

"Doctor Milligan said that your fever would break three days ago. When it didn't..."

"Did you think I'd escape His Majesty's justice?" Dean croaked out, before a glass of water was pressed into his hand. He took a sip, and then spluttered, the water running down his chin. "Doctor Milligan?"

"Don't worry, he can be trusted." Sam's friend was saying, taking the glass back before any more could be spilt. "We swore him to secrecy. Castiel here can't give you in without giving in your brother, and that means spilling the beans on me. And him. And he won't do that. Blood is thicker than water. "

It's another week before Dean feels strong enough to even try and get out of bed, but Castiel – Captain Collins, as the man tries to insist- makes the Doctor visit before Dean even attempts to free himself from the blankets. Castiel has been hovering over him constantly. At first, Dean thought it was because Castiel doesn't trust him. Then he guesses it's because Castiel has no intention of protecting Gabriel and thus Sam, and he just wants Dean to heal faster so that he can hand them both over and be recommended for promotion. But now Dean doesn't know what Castiel Collins wants.

And now the captain hangs back, nervous as he lets the Doctor in.

The Doctor. Doctor Milligan. Adam Milligan.

He's not a Doctor. He's the son of a pirate- the same pirate that fathered Dean and Sam and whatever Adam knows about healing, he learnt on a pirate ship. He's a ships surgeon, a butcher, and Dean is surprised that the Navy haven't seen right through the ruse.

He wants to say something, but every time he tries Adam glares at him and he shuts up with a sharp prod in the chest, and Dean gets the message fast. They keep quiet, aside from the groans he can't help but make as the hole in his chest- now looking better- is examined. Maybe Adam is more healer and less butcher than his big brother supposed. He's not dead, after all.

"He can get out of bed. But not for long. Just light exercise." Adam – Doctor Milligan- prescribes, gathering his bag and making ready to leave.

But before he escapes out the door, Castiel catches his elbow. "Will you tell the Commodore that I am still on bed rest? Another day or two. Just to make sure he is well and then..." Adam doesn't let the man say any more though, nodding curtly and leaving as fast as he can. Dean gets the impression Adam doesn't want to talk about the Commodore.

Castiel let him sit in the garden, brought him books and sat with him, in the evenings when he wasn't wanted at the Fort. At first he'd seemed surprised Dean could read, but just because he's a pirate doesn't mean he's an imbecile. John Winchester might have been gruff, a man married to the sea if ever there was one, but he knew his numbers and his letters and so his boys learnt to. All three of them, although Dean never yearned for more books like Sam and Adam did.

That evening though, it's not Castiel that comes to sit next to him. It's Sam, and Dean doesn't mind his brother, but it's not exactly what he was hoping for. Hoping for, he realises. But he says nothing.

Gabriel is at the other end of the garden. Too far away to hear, but Dean has the impression he's keeping an eye on them.

"What?" Dean says, because Sam is pulling a face, a worried, pained sort of face. The sort of face that Dean hates. Because it means something bad.

"I'm not going back." Sam says, and Dean just blinks at him.

"I'm not going back to sea. I'm staying here." His brother repeats, and then takes a breath and ploughs on before Dean can interrupt him. "The Impala is long gone, Dean. When you were stabbed- they weren't going to hang around. Bobby took her. You can't blame them. They were looking after themselves and he loves that ship and he'll look after her. And they thought you were going to die, one way or the other. And I couldn't leave you..."

Sam continues for a good ten minutes, but Dean isn't focusing anymore. He doesn't hear, and he doesn't see anything. The grass, billowing in the breeze, becomes the sea, black as jet, as the hull of his ship slips into the dark, out of port. Bobby loves her almost as much as Dean does, and if not Sam, then Bobby is the one he would want to captain her. They couldn't wait, not for an errant captain and his brother; they had to leave before the whole crew was under Navy lock and key. But the news hits him hard even so.

He feels Sam get off the bench and senses him go to Gabriel, standing close to him and they move back to the house together. Sammy wasn't made for the sea. He's too grounded. His freedom isn't the same as Deans.

Its dusk by the time Castiel is back and Dean hasn't moved. He's almost healed now, his chest only pains him occasionally, but Castiel won't want him staying out as the sea air picks up and grows cold. He's dressed in his uniform, and Dean feels his chest tighten. Not in pain, and not in sorrow as it had when he mourned his ship. This is something else.

Castiel says nothing, but sits down in the space Sammy vacated, and his eyes seem to reflect the turmoil in Dean's soul.

But neither of them spoke, Castiel just reached out and took Dean's hand, gripping it tight. And Dean knew that things would work out for the best. He always landed on his feet.

Dean didn't mind hard work. He liked hard work. He was the Impala's captain, but he was also helmsman and purser and sailwright and general tar too when he needed to be. You couldn't sit back on your laurels. There wasn't enough crew for that and even if there was, Dean wasn't the sort of just let other people get on with work he could help with.

But here was different. He wasn't on a ship. He was working with his hands, yes, in a yard. Castiel wanted to get him work inside, reading and writing and against his better judgement Dean had tried. He had wanted to please Castiel, to give the man something back. Castiel had risked everything to help Dean, without any guarantee that Dean would be grateful. Dean could have taken everything, once the whole in his chest had healed, and run away into the night. And if he'd got caught, he could have given Castiel away, told the Navy they had been betrayed by their own.

But he couldn't ever do that. He didn't want to betray Castiel. He didn't actually want to leave.

But the little dark, cramped room in town was not what Dean was used to. He didn't like the fact that Navy men, men who weren't Castiel and who weren't Gabriel, came in and out all day, day in, day out. Anyone one of them might have thought the new, sullen clerk just looked too much like Dean Winchester, pirate, and they might check him for brands and then the game was up. Dean couldn't handle it.

And Castiel had accepted that. Dean had resigned and gone to work in the shipyard. The Navy had their own shipwrights and yards, they didn't need to come down to the trader's port, and so Dean felt safe. He could even speak to the other men down there, laugh and joke and play a quick round of Hazard before their overseer sets them back to work. But working on ships that aren't his own makes his heart ache and going back every day becomes harder and harder.

Castiel sees it. His eyes seem so sorrowful and he reaches to stroke his fingers over Dean's jaw, Sam and Gabriel excusing themselves from the dinner table as fast as they can at the gesture. Dean likes Castiel, he is friendly, charming in a socially awkward way. He's attractive too; Dean has been on board boats all his life and he is no stranger to the beauty of men. But Castiel is Navy. That's a different creature all together. Neither of them can ever trust the other; but Dean is looking into those blue eyes and he can't help but lean forward and crush their mouths together.

Castiel doesn't taste like the sea. He isn't free; he is anchored to the fort and to piles of paper and pots of ink and Dean suddenly _knows_. Castiel isn't a captain liked Dean is, not any more. He can fight and he can steer a ship, but he hasn't been tested as a leader of men. Dean knows that. Castiel knows it. And the Navy know it. And that is why they keep Castiel in port. His title is an honorific.

That kiss starts something though. It lights a fuse and within moments, they are stripping each other out of clothes and grunting, groaning and rutting together, skin hot and slick with sweat and Castiel repeats Dean's name like a mantra as he spreads his legs and lets the pirate plunder both his body and soul.

It carries on like that. Lusty moments stolen where-ever, and when-ever, they can.

Until one day Dean finds some excuse to go to the fort. To the Naval fort. He doesn't believe his own audacity, but not one shouts at him to stop as he matches across the courtyard, no one seems to realise who he is and while he feels a pang of disappointment that he was never the infamous buccaneer he thought he was, the very fact he'd heading towards Castiel's office makes his heart sing and his cock swell in his trousers.

Sweeping all Castiel's papers off the desk and forcing the captain to bend over is probably going a little too far, but after a moment of protest, Castiel submits, groaning unashamedly as Dean buries himself deep into the pale man beneath him. He fucks him hard, hips snapping back and forth and He's so consumed by the heat of Castiel's welcoming body that he doesn't hear the door open.

He doesn't see the Commodore stood there.

He only hears "Winchester!" It's a name he hasn't used since arriving and that is when he feels his heart drop like a stone.

Castiel is held in a different cell. Dean can't see him. He can't even hear him, and that is assuming that Castiel can hear him calling. Dean has shouted for him until his throat was hoarse. Castiel might be ignoring him. Dean's chest aches- both his heart and the still-fresh scar, agitated by the cold, damp cells carved into the rock the fort was built over.

This is his fault. He had been so stupid, so foolish to march into nest of Navy sharks and think that he wouldn't get bitten. He had been lucky. He hadn't been recognised, he hadn't been noticed. But his brand had been uncovered, used as proof against him.

And against Castiel. Knowingly aiding a pirate, housing an enemy of the Crown was enough to see him stripped of his position and sentenced to Dean's fate. It was done with merciless efficiency and while Dean struggled and cursed and tried to fight as he was chained and cuffed with iron shackles, Castiel kept his chin held high and presented his hands without resistance.

The Commodore himself put the chains around Castiel's wrists, and Dean could have killed the man with his bare hands. Castiel had done nothing wrong. Nothing. But the Navy couldn't see that, they only saw the betrayal.

Dean couldn't blame Castiel for blaming the pirate. Dean had forced his way into his life; invaded his home and then outstayed his welcome, had kissed him and wanted him and now had cursed him.

"Castiel?" He tries one more time as night falls around them, and he hears, somewhere, a broken voice call his own name in reply.

Dean hadn't slept. He'd passed-out, exhausted, an emotional wreck, but he knew it was still dark when he heard metal grate against rusted metal. The cells are still midnight black, and he knew it was not yet time. But the cell door was being pulled open, but by one thin, lonely figure, cloaked and hooded.

Dean doesn't recognise it. Too short to be Sam, too slim to be Gabriel. Too quiet and composed to be Bobby, who would be cursing Dean and his stupidity from here to kingdom come. "Who are-?" He begins, as he creeps towards the door and slips out.

The figure sighs and forces back his hood. Adam is possibly the most unimpressed Dean has ever seen him. But he forces the keys towards Dean. "Go get him out of here. Head out to the dock as fast as you can."

Dean only gets to nod, not even having the chance to thank his brother as Adam turns and flees. He finds Castiel, looking dirty and despondent, his eyes dulled and Dean almost has to drag him up and out. It's as if Castiel has accepted his fate and now doesn't want to let it go. Dean, however, is too handsome to die. He drops the keys onto the floor and pulls Castiel with him.

He expected guards about, patrols, but there is no-one as they dash across the courtyard, towards the steps cut into the rock. Castiel seems surprised by it too, but neither of them mentions it. As soon as they do, they know they'll meet a heavily-armed patrol on the narrow stairs and neither of them want that. Dean is just thankful that Castiel has snapped out of it, all action now that he can smell freedom and they were within sight of the docks.

There was nothing there the two of them can pilot. These are Navy ships, the smallest a 16-gun sloop that would be easily out-sailed by some of the larger frigates. Dean feels his head sink but Castiel tugged at him and pointed to a small boat bobbing between two of the larger vessels. A figure in it waves, and the two escapees rush down the steps as fast as they can.

It's Sam in the boat, with Gabriel uncoiling the rope that links them with the shore. "What the hell are you doing, Sammy?" Dean hisses when they clamber in, Sam making no attempt to get up and out.

"We're coming too. Think they'll leave us alone when they realise your gone? They'll work out who I am in about five minutes." Sam says, raising the arm that bears the same brand Dean wears. Gabriel nods, and gets in to. They're not unprepared- there's bags shoved under the seats and as the tide and Sam at the oars pushes them out to sea, Dean breathes a sigh of relief.

And then he sees movement. He almost shouts a warning, but he recognises the silhouette now. Adam. And with him, the Commodore, an arm around Adam's shoulders as their brother waves. And then looks beyond their boat, at something further out to sea.

Dean turns to look too.

It's the Impala. Out of range of the forts guns, but recognisable in the moonlight. Castiel takes a sharp in-take of breath next to him.

"She's beautiful." He says, and Dean can't help but grin, his arm moving around Castiel's middle and pulling him into a kiss. Combined with the salt in the air, Castiel tastes just like freedom.


End file.
